Whatever brief delights it provides, mere strangeness in poetry and prose eventually leaves us cold, especially when we suspect the writer is stretching for effect to avoid the actual life before his eyes.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Our live experiences, fixed in aphorisms, stiffen into cold epigrams. Our heart's blood, as we write it, turns to mere dull ink.
I often read poetry to 'warm up' before I write.
I think coldness is chic among writers, and particularly ironic coldness. What is absolutely not allowable is sadness. People will do anything rather than to acknowledge that they are sad.
I simply don't understand authors that know everything before they write it; it seems so cold blooded. I think it's lovely when the story takes over and goes somewhere else.
Poetry is a beautiful way of spoiling prose, and the laborious art of exchanging plain sense for harmony.
Life is cold. People stay warm through the intimacy of a story.
The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mold of the body and mind.
And in a way, that's been a help to me, because I take great passions for a particular poet - sometimes it lasts for many years, sometimes only for a while. This happens to everybody.
I will not leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but saturate myself with the strange and extraordinary new conditions of this life, and it will all refine itself into poetry later on.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.